


A Reversal of Time

by gabrielandjackthenephilim



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-01-20 23:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21290285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielandjackthenephilim/pseuds/gabrielandjackthenephilim
Summary: Lacking purpose and haunted by the lives lost in the second Wizarding War, Harry goes back in time to the sixth year of Tom Riddle to prevent him from becoming Voldemort. Tom, for his part, is fascinated by the new student who reeks of dark, powerful magic. What happens when two people of similar pasts who made different choices meet on even ground with a blank slate?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 12
Kudos: 100





	1. Prologue

Harry stared blankly at the spoon which was slowly stirring his tea, clinking gently against the sides. He had found that after the destruction of the horcrux which had merged with his soul as a child, his magic had grown exponentially. The mediwitch who had examined him after the battle, Madam Ninurta, had told him that she had never seen anything like it. Her theory was that the horcrux had acted as a parasite, draining off excess magic from Harry’s core. Both she and Harry had been surprised when she, performing diagnostics on his magical core, had found residual dark magic wrapped around the core, nearly to the point of suffocating it. It appeared, Madam Ninurta had told him gravely, with pity in her eyes, that an obscurus had been forming inside him, likely for many years. The horcrux had been feeding on the dark, unstable magic, protecting Harry’s core from it and allowing him to live more or less unscathed, though not without the aftereffects of the psychological trauma that had led to the formation of the obscurial in the first place. 

At first Harry hadn’t understood what Madam Ninurta was trying to tell him, had been furious, thinking that the “obscurus” must have been placed by Voldemort’s horcrux as a way to sabotage him and allow Voldemort’s older counterpart to finally kill him. However, as Madam Ninurta began explaining the nature of obscurials and how they were born, it slowly dawned on Harry that for once the threat wasn’t related to Voldemort at all. It had been the Dursley’s who had forced him to suppress his magic, who had made him so afraid that he had begun to deform his own soul. For that was what obscurials were: Souls that had been oppressed and doused in terror and despair for so long that they ripped themselves and everything around them apart as a last defense, a final stand and cry for recognition. A magical core was an essential part of the soul of every witch and wizard and without being used it could change the very nature of a person. Because Harry’s case was special and every known obscurial, save one, a Credence Barebone, had died much younger than Harry, Madam Ninurta advised him to try to use his magic more often, explore more types of spells and stretch his core to avoid any further accidental repression. At a loss in regards to a way to treat his affliction, she also requested that he come to regular appointments every month so that she could monitor his condition and rather forcefully insisted that he at least consider seeing one of the Mind Healer’s at St. Mungo’s, insisting that it could be done discreetly. Harry knew it couldn’t. 

Where Harry had been famous before as the “Chosen One”, now that he had fulfilled the prophecy he had become more legendary than ever. The mixture of awe and wariness that had followed him when he first arrived in the wizarding world and shifted so mercurially in response to his exploits catalogued in the Daily Prophet had returned full force and he had once more been put on the pedestal of “Powerful Wizard” with the likes of Merlin, the Founders, Grindelwald, Dumbledore, and Voldemort. He was constantly in the spotlight; no one knew how he had “faked” his death and escaped Voldemort, and there were many rumors that he himself was going to become the next Dark Lord. 

As a result, Harry had rarely been seen in public since the post-battle recovery operations. Before Madam Ninurta’s examinations, Harry had helped to round up a few of the remaining Death Eaters, though most had fled before they could be caught. Then the chaos had faded into something more subdued; groups were formed and they split up to look for the second round of injured and dead. Harry shuddered remembering the sudden cries and wails that would pierce the air as a body was recognized, groups becoming smaller as students collapsed with grief at the recognition of a sister, brother, or friend. It didn’t take long for news to travel to the younger students who had been kept from the battle that it was over. They arrived in droves, only to be struck mute by the scorch marks and smell of death, the shrieking and tears and mournful cacophony that penetrated the battlefield. A thestral, likely attracted by the smell of blood, had trotted out of the woods, and the whole of Hogwarts save a few began to scream and point at it, already afraid and unsure of what it was, having never been able to see one before, and Harry had felt his heart break. 

The recovery had lasted well into the night and through the next day. News traveled by owls and parents arrived in droves to see if their children had survived. Then there had been the days of funerals. Harry’s cup shattered as he remembered the joint funeral for Remus, Tonks, and Fred, rage and grief overtaking him. Tears dripped from his eyes as he tightened his grip on his magic, black tendrils reaching out towards his kitchen walls, looking for something to break. A reporter had been there and approached him as soon as the funeral ended, trying to get answers from him about what he would be doing now that Voldemort was gone, if he felt any sort of responsibility for the Battle of Hogwarts, if he had any comment on the rumors that he had only defeated Voldemort so that he could take his place and conquer Wizarding Britain. His outrage at the man’s audacity, coupled with his newly released and ever-growing obscurus which was feeding heavily on the all-encompassing grief as he once again buried family, had led to Harry disapparating on the spot. It had been hours before he had been able to calm down, at which point a good portion of Grimwauld Manor had been demolished. Kreacher, who had fully embraced Harry as the new honorary “Master Black” due to his being the godson of Sirius and inheritor of Grimwauld Manor, had restored the walls and cleaned it up without a fuss, muttering about revenge on the filthy, inferior reporter who had spoken so rudely to his little master. When Harry had told him that he appreciated it but that he was being watched closely enough and that Kreacher shouldn’t go to any trouble, Kreacher had only given him a slightly deranged looking grin and promised that he wouldn’t “sully good Master Black’s reputation.” Mr. Barry, the reporter, became a resident of St. Mungo’s within a week with several fractures and a twisted tongue that no counter curse seemed able to undo, and no one was quite sure who had done it or how it had happened, only that the magic was very old and very complex. House elf magic is, after all, very different from the magic of wizards. 

As though summoned by his thoughts, Kreacher appeared, snapping the broken cup away. 

“I’ll fix young Master Black some new tea, good tea, great tea, only the best for the Noble House of Black!” Kreacher began, descending into feverish mumbling quickly. Harry sighed, recognizing that Kreacher was going to begin one of his longer rants that focused on the Black superiority. 

“Kreacher, really, I don’t need anymore, right now I’ll probably just end up breaking the cup again….” 

“Master Black breaks the cups and the walls because Master Black is powerful, Master Black is a great wizard who will return greatness to the wizarding world…” 

“Enough!” Harry shouted, panic and frustration bubbling up again. Kreacher instantly vanished with a pop. Harry sank back into his chair, the wood stabbing into his shoulders uncomfortably. He felt guilty for yelling at Kreacher, who he knew would take it personally and may even punish himself for it. He was just tired of hearing about greatness, tired of always having to be the best and brightest. He had been prepared to die the night of the battle, and as horrible as it was, it had also been a bit of a relief. He had gone in knowing that he was doing everything he could, knowing that he was fulfilling his destiny and had successfully made it to the end of the journey he’d been following his whole life. The question was, what now? He had never considered what came after Voldemort was gone, had never experienced life without having to look over his shoulder. Moving straight from an abusive household to a place where there were strangers who wanted to kill him had left him independent but untrusting, cynical and hypersensitive to threats, real or imagined, all around him. Constant vigilance. he thought. He no longer had a goal, a clear direction for him to focus on and give any suffering or hardship he may endure meaning. His relationship with Ginny had crumbled during their time apart, neither of them the same people they had been before, hardened by the things they’d experienced and seen. Hermione and Ron, though they were still his best friends, were closer than ever, their relationship forged in fire. They found comfort and strength in one another, and while Harry envied them, he understood. The Weasleys, who for so long had been a family to him, were consumed with grief, and Harry couldn’t bear to be with them for long, feeling guilty for not being fast enough, for Fred dying on his behalf to buy him more time when the diadem had been there at Hogwarts all those years where he could have found and destroyed it. A popping noise shook him from his thoughts and he glanced down to see Kreacher timidly holding out a letter towards him. 

“It’s from Gringotts, Master Black, sir,” he said, eyes facing the floor and unusually subdued. Harry felt the pangs of guilt again and tried to use a soft voice. 

“Thanks Kreacher. I wasn’t, you know, um, mad at you before, just sort of, well, not quite there, so sorry, if that makes sense?” Harry cringed as the apology came out, stuttered and uncoordinated as he accepted the letter. Kreacher, however, slumped in relief and grinned, beginning to praise his “Great Master Black” again. Ignoring him for the most part, Harry opened the letter, wondering if it was about the dragon he had escaped on and the damage he had done to the Goblin bank during his time as a fugitive. He was actually rather surprised that he hadn’t heard anything about the incident from anyone since it happened. He has assumed that breaking into and successfully stealing from Gringotts would have some sort of consequence, even with the extenuating circumstances. Intrigued and thrumming with the thrill of anticipation he always felt when heading towards trouble, Harry opened the letter and began to read: 

_Lord Potter, _

__

The Head Council of Goblins at Gringotts request your presence at the earliest convenience for the discussion of several pressing matters. Please reply by Owl Post and be advised to travel under a glamour if you wish for discretion. 

__

May your gold ever multiply, 

__

_ Grimley the Grave _

Harry blinked, surprised by how short and vague the letter was. 

“Well Kreacher, it seems I’m going to Gringotts.”


	2. A Trip to Gringotts

The clamor of voices and bustling sounds of Diagon Alley greeted Harry as he stepped through the brick wall, which quickly sealed itself behind him. He couldn’t help himself from smiling as he looked around. This he had missed. It had felt like years since Diagon Alley had been so alive, all smiles, laughter, and price haggling. Magic seemed to drip from the air. Though the streets were perhaps a bit less crowded and families flocked closer together as they moved from shop to shop, the community was rebuilding. Many shops that had been damaged or closed during the war had reopened and were once again going about their business. If their smiles were forced at first, they eased every day as fear and suspicion faded back into relief and the extra good spirits that came from not only having a thing but from having it in spite of some disastrous event. 

Harry’s smile faded quickly, however, when he passed in front of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, the gutted shop stopping him in his tracks. It was a rather gruesome sight, a clown’s head half toppled and bobbing, the sign torn and hanging with faded lettering. Parts of the wall were missing and it appeared to have been looted. Dust and debris could be seen on the floor through the windows. 

The shop sat in the midst of Diagon Alley like a scar, and people either hurried past it or stared openly in dismay. Harry felt the rage beginning to pool in his stomach again, fighting with the strange numbness that had become more and more familiar. This was Voldemort’s fault, the lost innocence of the shop only a reflection of the loss of Fred. There was a permanence to the consequences that Harry was only now beginning to contemplate. It was one thing to know objectively that death took indiscriminately, that it was final and unchanging. Hadn’t he experienced it with Cedric, Hedwig, Dobby, and even his parents, though he hadn’t known them? But somehow it had always seemed that if he could just fulfill his destiny, just stop Voldemort, everyone would be alright. They weren’t. And he wasn’t. 

Harry was startled from his thoughts when a hand clapped him on the shoulder. Turning slightly, he saw an older man with silvery hair, a few strands of black fluttering throughout, and a silver mustache that curled away from the sides of his face and spiraled, several brightly colored beads attached and appearing to be wound through the hair itself. 

“Terrible, what happened to that poor Weasley boy, absolutely awful. Did you know him, kid?” The stranger asked, eyes soft in a way that reminded Harry of Lupin, if a bit less weary. 

“Yeah, yeah, we were at Hogwarts together. Different years but…” Harry let himself trail off, not sensing any threat but wary of the man anyway. He had taken precautions before leaving Grimmauld, changing his hair to a sandy blond with a potion and using a glamour to give himself freckles and to cover his scar. His eyes he had covered with muggle contacts, changing them to a more dull brown rather than the vivid green that he was known for. Though they irritated his eyes, they were a crucial part of his disguise: The only safe way to transform eye color through magic was Polyjuice. By using contacts, which many wizards likely didn’t even know existed, he had a better chance of going unrecognized. Still, the close contact had him on edge. 

“They’ll rebuild, don’t you worry. People always do.” The man continued, oblivious to Harry’s tension. “The last two wars were the same. First Grindelwald, then Voldemort and his first defeat, and now his return…there will always be men like them and innocent people will always be lost but we’ll recover. The name’s Bartleby by the way, Charles Bartleby, I work the apothecary down Thunderbird Lane. We’ve been stocking up on potions, sleeping draughts and the like. Pardon me for saying so, but you look like you could use some,” Bartleby said frowning, and Harry felt a trickle of embarrassment as he realized Bartleby was assuming that his red eyes were a result of sleepless nights. Though his sleep patterns weren’t the cause of his appearance, it was true he had been having nightmares. It had come to the point where he would only get two or three hours of sleep, sometimes four if he was lucky, before jolting awake disoriented and thinking he had fallen asleep on guard duty. The potions weren’t a bad idea. 

“Thanks, Mr. Bartleby. I’ll stop by later,” he said, gently but firmly moving his shoulder out from beneath Mr. Bartleby’s hand. Bartleby did not seem perturbed by this, simply curling his fingers as he withdrew the hand. 

“Splendid, we’ll be waiting!” And with a smile the man withdrew, walking down the street with a spring in his step. 

Bemused, Harry turned around and continued on his way to Gringotts. After entering the large building, he walked to the end of aisleway to where a goblin, who Harry didn’t recognize, sat behind a large desk. 

“Name please,” the goblin said, not looking up from his work. 

“I have an appointment,” Harry stated, holding his key out to him so that he could be identified without alerting the few wizards who were in the bank as well of his identity. The goblin raised his eyes from the desk and, upon seeing the key, raised a brow before taking it for closer inspection. 

“This way,” he said, getting up and walking to a door on the side of the bank. Harry followed him through the door and down a long narrow hallway that seemed to have hundreds of doors lining the sides, all of them looking exactly the same. 

Noticing Harry’s attention drifting, the goblin escorting him spoke up, “The doors are constantly rearranging themselves. Only one leads to the council chamber and only a goblin can find it. It takes enough of a push from our magic and needs a strong enough desire to find it that a goblin under the Imperius curse could never do it. It protects our leaders.” 

“What is the Head Council of Goblins?” 

“They’re the leaders of the Goblin Nation. You do not know how fortunate you are to meet with them, Mr. Potter. The Head Council are all elders who have not spoken to a witch or wizard in 187 years. The last time, I believe, was after the last of the Goblin Wars, to discuss a peace treaty. Here we are,” he said, stopping in front of one of the doors on the left with a small smirk on his face. 

Harry, who had stumbled and was left gaping at the casual mention of 187 years of isolation being broken to speak to him, felt anxiety pool in his chest like cold fingers snaking around his heart and lungs. 

“Um, any advice before I go in?” He asked hesitantly, eying the door with apprehension. 

The goblin lost his smirk and looked him up and down, before responding seriously, “There are not many wizards willing to ask about the values of a goblin. You want to be treated with respect? Give them the same. And give a traditional greeting, ‘May your wealth expand and your vault always remain full.’ That should win you some favor.” 

“Thank you,” Harry said sincerely, before opening the door and stepping through into a blinding light. He felt his body pinched, folded, and thrown, not unlike apparition but totally outside of his control, before he landed with a hard thud on a stone floor. 

“Mr. Potter,” came a gravelly, deep voice, “we have been expecting thee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm so late updating, finals were hectic and this chapter took me longer than I thought it would, but I have been making big plans and some drafts for later parts of the story.


	3. I'm A What

“Mr. Potter,” came a gravelly, deep voice, “we have been expecting thee.”

Harry got to his feet, hastily brushing his robes off as he scanned the room covertly. He was standing in a large rotunda, not all that dissimilar from the room where he had stood trial at the Wizengamot. There were thirteen goblins, all of them ancient looking, who were sitting behind a long, rectangular wooden table which sat at the center of the room. Three levels of balconies stretched along the sides of the walls and there were lines of chairs, covered in cobwebs and dust and looking like they would break should anyone attempt to sit on them. 

The room itself, however, was brightly lit, though there were no windows or any source of the light that Harry could see. Gold covered the walls in strange spiraling designs and Harry noticed on the level that he stood with the goblins the wall was lined with extraordinary looking weapons, all of which, Harry assumed, were goblin crafted.

“May your, er, wealth expand and….and your vault always remain full,” Harry replied, bowing slightly as he stammered out the greeting the other goblin had told him to use.

There was some murmuring from several of the goblins, but the goblin at the center of the table who had greeted Harry on his arrival simply raised a brow. 

“And so may it be for thee,” the goblin said, his face remaining serious as he continued, “Are you aware as to the nature of our business today, Mr. Potter?”

“Well, I assume it’s about the dragon, and I’m definitely alright paying for the damages if there is enough in my vault, if that’s what this is about. If not, um, I could take out a loan and pay it off over the next few years maybe? Is this some sort of trial or a discussion about the cost…I-I don’t really know how the goblin judicial system works,” Harry rambled, trying to look for some clue in the faces of the goblins and finding only blank faces instead. Exactly what _ were _ goblin punishments? Could he be punished by the Head Council or did he have to face Wizengamot? It wouldn’t be exactly fair, he mused, if he was judged by wizards, because he would be forgiven everything in the face of winning the war. Then there would be no one to pay reparations to Gringotts. The Ministry was still too conservative; they wouldn’t pay for goblin repairs willingly.

“This is no trial young wizard. When a wizard is of age, it is the duty of Gringotts to give them access to their heirships. After the war ended, thine heirships were reviewed by Grimley the Grave, the new goblin that was assigned to thee. While in most cases witches and wizards would be contacted and would come to Gringotts to speak to the goblin assigned their case, there are rare exceptions. After the review of thy titles, the Head Council was summoned.

“Harry Potter, thou art pronounced by the Head Council of Goblins: Lord Potter…Lord Black…. Lord Dumbledore, and, finally, Lord Peverell, Master of Death,” he finished, with grave finality. Harry stared dumbstruck, unable to believe that he had two lordships of which he had known nothing about. He wondered if Aberforth knew that he had inherited the Dumbledore name, and if the Peverell lordship was even his to rightfully claim. The goblin continued,

“The Head Council of the Goblin Nation was convened in response to this last inheritance. It was thought by many that the Hallows were a myth. While we were aware of their existence, as the centuries passed it seemed that the Hallows would never be united. It seems thou hast once again proved to do what was thought impossible, Lord Potter. Thou hast proven thyself through thy success in thy quest for the fractured soul, thy escape from Gringotts, and thy mastery of that which masters all to be clever, bold, ambitious, and powerful. Because of this, I, King Ragnok the First, offer thee, Lord Peverell, Master of Death, a sixth title; Thou shalt be known as Goblin Friend and Heir of Gringotts. So I have spoken.” 

As Ragnok said this power flooded the room and the weapons shook along the walls. Harry felt magic rush through him the way it had when he first got his wand: It flowed from his fingertips and rushed throughout him, a warm embrace that settled in his core, deep in his soul, and though he did not know what he had received he knew that something had changed irreversibly. Then he panicked. _King_ Ragnok the First? Wasn’t he supposed to speak to Grimley the Grave? Why did the name Ragnok sound so familiar? And what were the goblins going to do when they found out that he had destroyed the one of the Hallows and lost another?

“Look, King Ragnok, I’m flattered, but I think there’s been a mistake. I don’t have all of the Hallows anymore. I’m not the Master of Death.”

“There is no mistake. He who is rightful owner of the three Hallows can never truly part from them. Thou carry with thee the cloak, and thy wand and stone are safe within thy vault. Now, to our business,” Ragnok continued, eyes taking on a glint as he leaned forward in his seat, hands folding and hands folding carefully so as to avoid being wounded by the overly long nails that stretched nearly three inches off of each finger.

“B-business?” Harry sputtered, still reeling from both the revelation of his titles and the returned ring and elder wand.

“What title would thou wish to use when being addressed? Is there anything that we at Gringotts can do for thee? Wouldst thou consider loaning the Resurrection Stone…for the right price of course” Ragnok prodded.

“I…I don’t know what title I want. Lord Potter, I guess? I’m just…just Harry. But I am sure” Harry decided, face hardening, “The Resurrection Stone is as dangerous as the Elder Wand. I threw it away in the Forbidden Forest hoping it would stay lost. There is no price. No one should use it, especially not now when so many are struggling with loss. It’ll drive them mad” he finished, face pinching wearily as he thought of all the distress it would cause those who could not afford it if it was put at a price and the chaos if it was offered for the use of all. 

“Very well, Lord Potter. It is thy right to keep the Stone to thyself. It seems our business is concluded. But if thou ever need assistance, remember, Gringotts is at thy service” Ragnok declared, sitting back and looking oddly satisfied.

“Um, thanks?” Harry said, giving a short bow.

“Until we meet again, Lord Potter.”

And with that, a bright flash of light appeared again and Harry Potter was back in Gringotts.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first time writing fanfiction and I would love feedback. This chapter was mostly about establishing the story, but don't worry, I'll be talking about Tom soon!


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